| I found him crying on the billboard in Los Angeles
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| The Searchers ran right through him on the dead leaves
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| Arranging flowers, oh a moveable typeface
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| Bought agrarian and escaped the space race
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| Sentimental brother falling slowly
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| Black the raging sea and the death that owns me
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| Paralysed 8 millimetre show me
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| How my tiny boards can get this lonely
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| Off the coast of Ireland, what’s the point in borders
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| Scramble all the signals and disconnect the callers
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| Because miracles they don’t happen here
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| He played the futures in a silent demonstration
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| Collecting figures in studied isolation
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| A box of photographs a sail and a letter
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| Exhibited after he’d conquered the weather
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| Squaring circles, oh my paramour a forcefield
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| Romance from Grönigen, a theory and a bent keel
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| Elemental drifting culmination
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| A life defined as a rusted numbers station
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| Off the coast of Ireland, what’s the point in borders
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| Scramble all the signals and disconnect the callers
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| Because miracles they don’t happen here
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| Falling over Niagara Falls
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| Do you think he’s really seen it all
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| Off the coast of Ireland, what’s the point in borders
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| Scramble all the signals and disconnect the callers
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| Because miracles, they don’t happen here
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| In these international waters |